


Predatory Mammals

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Wolverines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 12:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: He doesn't particularly want to go up against a tangle of wolverines with a knife. A horde of wolverines? It's probably amurderof wolverines. That would make so much sense.





	Predatory Mammals

The day had started off so well. Rook had liberated Fall's End, for the second time. He'd liberated the church, also for the second time. Stopped John Seed from going on a rampage through town, shot down his goddamn plane, and even chased him down in a parachute, dumping a perfectly good plane of his own for the opportunity.

It's not Rook's fault that they both came down deep in wolverine territory, during what seems to be mating season. The wolverines had immediately objected to their presence, loudly, and violently.

So now Rook's life has come down to this. He's twenty foot up a tree, a tree that seems designed to be as hard as possible to climb, with the shittiest possible excuse for branches to try and perch on. He has no weapons, and he's in the middle of nowhere. With John fucking Seed for company.

At the bottom of the tree a small collections of wolverines mingle, occasionally one will stop and hiss up them, as if to remind them how very capable it is of tearing everything off a human body. Any part it likes, arms, legs, face, balls.

Rook is currently as far away from Seed as he can manage while still being in the same tree.

"And this is just one more thing on your list of fuck-ups," John says slowly. He doesn't seem to know whether to sound amused or furious. He settles for a combination of both.

"You're here too," Rook reminds him. "So maybe you're going to have to carve 'stupidity' somewhere on your skin as well."

Rook can hear John's teeth grind from six feet away.

"My men will come for me eventually."

Which, Rook admits, is a possibility, though they've strayed pretty far from the ranch. He vaguely remembers flying past at least two rivers. 

"And the wolverines will eat them," Rook says, because apparently they've been the top of the food chain all along, and no one ever thought to tell him. Also, because John Seed's men are fucking stupid, Rook's spent the last few weeks personally proving that. If you wanted to clear a place in Holland Valley, just pull out a chair and wait in any doorway.

"They'll have guns."

" _We_ had guns," Rook points out. It's the reason they're up a tree in one piece, and not a scattered collections of limbs, organs and wolverine shit. "Now I have a knife."

He did originally have a lead pipe as well, but he'd jammed that into the tree to make climbing it even a possibility, and it's still twelve feet below them. So, yes, just the knife. Rook doesn't particularly want to go up against a tangle of wolverines with a knife. Since personal experience has taught him that the little monsters are some flavour of indestructible. 

A horde of wolverines, maybe? A charge of wolverines? Its probably a _murder_ of wolverines. That would make so much sense.

"Which I don't fancy my chances with," he grumbles.

"And you might need it to stab me in the face?" John hazards.

"I'm not going to stab you in the face," Rook snaps, because he's not a damn psychopath, unlike some people.

"Give it to me then," John says easily. "I'll stab _you_ in the face."

Honestly, he should have expected that.

"Of course you would, because you're a sadistic madman. I don't know why you seem so surprised that people keep trying to kill you."

Rook tries to find a more comfortable position on the branch he's currently perched on, something that doesn't shove proto-branches up his fucking ass. The movement sends a collection of smaller twigs twirling groundwards, and seems to stir the horde below.

"What's the collective term for a lot of wolverines?" Rook wonders.

John Seed gives him an odd look, over six feet of empty space.

"How the fuck would I know?"

"I don't know, I thought you might. It's been bugging me." A savage of wolverines maybe? There's a long moment of silence. In which Rook accepts the fact he may actually die without ever finding out. That bugs him, for some irrational reason.

John Seed eventually sighs.

"There probably isn't one, they're usually solitary."

"And they're gathering now because...?" Rook can't help but wonder.

"Because they want to kill us?" John offers. 

Which granted, does seem to be their end goal here. Rook's not sure if that helps, knowing that it's personal.

"I hate how much sense that makes."

No one comes for anyone. It's almost pointed how much no one comes. It's like they're the only two people left in the whole world. That seems like the sort of thing fate would do to Rook at the moment. It seems hell bent on making his life an adventure, throwing him from one crazy person causing explosions and mayhem to the next. There's not a single plane in the sky either. Rook has spent the last few days hiding from spotters and now it's like everyone just went home.

The sun goes down, it sinks in lazy pieces, until the sky is just a sad grey, and then there's nothing but darkness. Rook can't even see John any more, though he can hear the faint noises he makes in the dark. Tiny shifts of fabric against bark, irritated noises of craziness. The night animals start making their varied, annoying noises from around them. It's funny how you could ignore stuff like that when you're not stuck up a tree.

The wolverines do not leave. They seem to be sleeping in shifts.

"This your fault," Rook decides. "And by that I mean, of course, literally everything."

"This antagonism," John says smoothly. "Is nothing but a plea for help."

"The first time I met you, you forcibly baptised me." Rook glares across at him "Which, by the way, probably doesn't even count. I do not consider that help, and I think I'm allowed to be a little pissed."

"I cleansed you, you should be _grateful._ " John tells him. Rook's night vision is almost good enough to make out his expression now, not that he really needs to. He remembers what his face looked like, when it was just him and a screwdriver deciding Rook's fate.

"Also, getting a thrill out of drowning someone...not normal."

"Satisfaction in saving a soul," John corrects. "Though I will admit, you're a work in progress, clinging to your sins, stubborn, wilful, blind."

"Not to mention the fucking tattoo, which I am understandably, and now also ironically, pissed about, so thank you for that." 

"It's clear to me now that you're going to take effort," John adds, like he's not even listening. "But I am willing to be persistent, if that's what's required. A firm hand, the sweat of labour. The Father seems to think you're worth it."

Rook has no idea how to feel about any of that. Joseph's Seed's obsession with salvation, atonement and paradise, doesn't really mesh well with the sheer number of corpses nailed on things across the valley. Rook does not want to end up a nailed-up corpse with a bag on its head.

"But you have your doubts?" Rook guesses.

"I don't doubt him," John says simply. "Everything I do is for him."

Which seems to give him the excuse to share more stories of his terrible fucking childhood. Stories that Rook didn't ask for. That he's not sure why John feels compelled to share, though he obviously does. Rook doesn't interrupt, there's not a lot to say after all. John Seed's childhood is going to give Rook nightmares, and the man's just throwing it out like time-killing after dinner conversation. As if it was nothing at all. Rook can't help but wonder exactly how many normal human interactions John Seed has actually had.

Not that it changes anything. You can feel sorry for someone, and still think they're a fucking asshole.

When the sun rises, what feels like a thousand hours of complaining, praying and the occasional half-hearted threat later, Rook's ass is completely numb, his elbow has some sort of horrible bark rash on it. He's thirsty, stiff and more tired than he has the patience to deal well with right now.

His only consolation, is when he turns his head and finds John Seed, dishevelled and equally miserable next to him.

It's a sad consolation, but it is one.

"I have to piss," John says simply. He sounds thoroughly annoyed about it. Apparently religious conviction only gets you so far.

Rook looks across at him.

"So, hold a branch with one hand and piss with the other."

John looks unhappy with that suggestion, and sure, some of the branches are not exactly that sturdy, and it's not going to be a fun experience. But, honestly, how much concentration does it take to piss?

"You're not going to fall out of the tree," Rook tells him. He's tempted to tell him to have faith, but that will probably get him pushed out of said tree. He has no doubt that John Seed will have far less trouble watching him be eaten alive by wolverines.

"No, I'm fucking not," John says, but he still doesn't move. This is clearly a thing he does not want to do.

"There are more ignominious ways to die," Rook says, which probably isn't helpful either.

"Really," John says acidly. "Name one?"

That is...actually a good point.

"Ok, you got me there. But still, I'm pretty sure we're not at the 'holding your dick' level of friendship," Rook says firmly.

John opens his mouth to speak, and then visibly reins whatever he was going to say back in. He tilts his head at him instead.

"You must have interesting friends." There's a smile, and a quirked eyebrow that's far too curious.

"I _have_ friends," Rook says. Which he think says more than enough.

John's smile breaks in half, jaw moving, one slow rock from one side to the other. Rook has no idea how Joseph manages to control him, he has the impulse control of a fucking five year old. But John very slowly eases himself to a stand, looks over the branch he's standing on, which creaks, as if it's in on the damn joke. John mutters something that Joseph would probably disapprove of, and edges out a little further.

"Just hold my fucking belt, alright," he says tightly. Rook thinks it's supposed to be a demand, but it's said quickly, with none of John's shiny confidence or threats of violence. It also seems oddly trusting, considering. 

Rook thinks about it, thinks about John Seed getting his genitals eaten off by wolverines and sighs. He resettles his weight on the branch, braces a knee against the trunk. Then he leans sideways and digs a hand in the back of John's jeans, feels the vaguely upsetting warmth of the small of his back.

"Just...just fucking do it." Rook says miserably. Because he likes to think that's he's mostly a decent person, but this feels like going above and beyond. This is not a situation he ever expected to find himself in.

It gets slightly more upsetting when John unbuckles his belt and unzips, and Rook's fingers shift a little deeper. And, great, he's officially gotten to second base with John Seed.

The uncomfortable pause is long enough that Rook is sorely tempted to make a comment about performance issues. But then John makes a quiet sound of relief, and it's uncomfortably weird for at least half a minute.

The wolverines protest, aggressively and noisily.

"Please tell me you're aiming for them," Rook says flatly.

"Of fucking course I am," John mutters, like it's the stupidest question in the whole world.

And this is officially the weirdest situation that Rook has ever caught himself laughing in.

John zips back up, and Rook draws his hand slowly free. Then John eases back down, settles against the trunk again. The wolverines have not taken this new slight well. They are now hissing and clawing at the bottom of the tree like it's their new mission in life to destroy them both at all costs.

"They couldn't...actually bring down a tree, right?" Rook asks absently. He would have said no, but he's not an expert in wolverines. Why are there so many bear experts and wolf experts around here, but no one willing to tell him how to avoid wolverines? Maybe Hope County should think about looking for one. He might suggest it once everything stops exploding on an hourly basis.

"I want to say no," John offers.

The sound from below becomes throaty and intent.

"I really want to say no," he amends.

The morning drags on, interminably.

John Seed starts humming, and Rook doesn't even complain. It drowns out the wolverines, if nothing else.

Rook manages to take a piss without help. Which does not garner him a round of applause, when he kind of thinks maybe it should. Still, he's significantly less uncomfortable for the tediously long and unnecessarily personal explanation of what John Seed considers to be Rook's personal sin. The purging of which will apparently involve bondage, sharp objects, John himself, and eventually forgiveness. Rook's summing up a hell of a lot, but he thinks he gets the pertinent points. He feels like maybe John Seed has chosen to work through his issues in an unhealthy way. And when Rook says unhealthy he means for everyone in a fifty mile radius.

"You're more than a little fucked up, you know that right, John?" Rook says eventually. Because, honestly, that can't come as a surprise to him, he has to be aware of it. He wonders if Joseph's crazy and John's crazy created some sort of feedback loop of crazy that dragged everyone else in. It would explain the sheer number of Peggies in the county. But if that's true, how long until crazy started eating itself? 

"Not everyone is strong enough to walk the path themselves, they have to be shown, they have to be _pushed_." John leans towards him, he clearly wants to be more enthusiastic about what he's saying, but the branch he's on isn't up to it, it creaks gently. John quickly reaches for something to grip with his other hand and carefully leans back again.

Rook very pointedly does not laugh. Though he kind of wants to.

"They have to be pushed," John repeats.

Rook has seen John's idea of pushing. He seems to like it a bit too much.

"And you're the one who gets to push them?"

"Joseph showed me my purpose, showed me what I could do, if I believed in him, if I had faith." 

"That's funny because your purpose feels like a massacre," Rook says tightly. "There are dead bodies hung up all over the valley."

"We don't have the luxury of time, people have to be shown now, they have to have their sins dragged into the light. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much they don't want to see. Not everyone is willing or strong enough to confess. Some of them refuse, over and over again." 

"When they should have just said yes?" Rook guesses.

"When they should have just said yes," John agrees, soft like he knows Rook is mocking him, and he doesn't care. He rolls his head on the trunk, bark tugging pieces of his hair down. "But sometimes that's just encouragement to try harder. Sometimes that's a test for me as well." John smiles at him, eyes pale and focused. 

Rook has no idea what he's supposed to say to that. So he says nothing at all.

There's not a cloud in the sky and it stays that way for hours. Being up a tree does not count as being in the shade. It doesn't help that no matter which way Rook leans, something is uncomfortable.

John has tugged his sunglasses down against the glare, one boot scraping at the end of his branch.

"I will be so fucking annoyed if I die like this," he says, slowly and sluggishly.

Rook's not going to pretend he isn't finding the way John swings between sadistic, religious mania and miserable, human frustration fascinating to watch. It's almost like he's a normal, human person. 

"Not so much the paradise you were promised?" There were probably no wolverines in paradise. Probably no Rook either, just hordes of smelly, unwashed crazy people, lots of guns, dire wolves, hallucinatory drugs, little sackcloth effigies of sinners burned over a bonfire somewhere maybe? Honestly, why are Eden's Gate so surprised when people don't want to join them willingly?

Rook stares into the foliage for a while. He can see a bear in the distance, just minding its own business, gambolling along, occasionally stopping to rub itself on a tree. What sort of problems do bears have anyway? Probably not wolverines. If a wolverine pissed off a bear it would probably bite the fucker in half.

He's tempted to point it out to John, just for something to talk about. Fuck it, why the hell not. He rolls his head sideways. 

"Hey, John, do you -"

John has his head tipped back against the trunk, his eyes behind his sunglasses are shut, and the position he's currently in can only be described as 'perilous.' Which is just fucking typical, and no, John Seed does not get to take a goddamn _nap_.

Rook reaches over, far enough to dig his fingers into John's dangling wrist. It's hot from the sun, sweaty. He grips it tightly, and squeezes.

"Hey."

John's eyes slam open.

"What?" he complains, not entirely coherently.

"You fell asleep."

"Shit," John says simply.

"If you fall, I'm not coming down for you." Rook tells him. Which he thinks might be a lie. Rook has a problem with trying to save people. It's probably going to get him killed.

"If I fall there will be very little to come down for," John grumbles, and then pushes himself into what's clearly a less comfortable but more secure position.

Rook realises he's still gripping his arm, releases it.

They sit in weirdly companionable silence, while the sun works its way to what feels a lot like lunchtime. Rook tries to think of something to distract him from the fact that his stomach feels like it's eating itself. But all he ends up dwelling on is what a wolverine would taste like. At this point he would eat a wolverine. It would serve them right.

"My ass is completely numb," Rook decides. "I cannot feel my ass."

John makes a throaty noise of agreement.

"Welcome to my ass nine hours ago."

The wolverines contribute their own strangled, hissy laughter to the conversation, and Rook has never hated anything so much in his entire life. So, hey, maybe John Seed was right all along. Rook may have a problem with wrath, and the wolverines are his just punishment for it. God sent wolverines. That...actually seems like the sort of thing he would do. Rook's laughing, without even really meaning to.

What's so funny?" John asks.

"Wolverines," Rook says simply.

Which John seems to accept easily enough.

Lunchtime comes and goes, afternoon dragging on. Eventually hunger becomes the secondary of Rook's complaints. The sun is hot, and he hasn't had a drink for more than a day. He can't even remember what that drink was. It might have been beer, it might have been soda out of a machine, it might have been from Nick's kitchen tap while he was washing his face. He'd drink from a trough in the middle of the street right now.

He's shaken out of his misery by John, the other man is leaning next to him shoulder pressed against Rook's, head tilted back, squinting into the branches. One arm stretches up past Rook's head to grasp a higher branch.

"What are you doing?" Rook asks.

John points upwards.

"What's that?"

Rook tilts his head, regrets it immediately, because the sunlight flickering through the leaves makes the world swim around unsettlingly. He grasps the branch above him and tries again, still can't see a fucking thing. John makes an annoyed noise, pulls the sunglasses off his head and turns them around, slots them over Rook's eyes. Rook blinks and stops squinting, looks up again. There's a wedge of something higher in the tree, grey-black, blocky and out of place.

"That may be a crate from my plane," Rook says slowly.

"Whose plane?" John sounds more amused than annoyed.

"Technically the moment I commandeered it, it became my plane." That's the law of salvage or something, isn't it? Or maybe it's piracy. Either way, still Rook's.

"You stole it, and then crashed it."

Rook does that a lot, honestly he's only known how to fly for a few weeks, and he's still mostly bad at it. It's amazing that this is the first time John has noticed.

"Alright fine," Rook says. "It's _your wreckage_ , are you happy now?"

John smiles at him sideways, like he wants to punch him in the throat - but for him it's almost friendly.

"Ok, so obviously I'm now compelled to find out what's in it," Rook admits. "But it's what...another twenty feet up. I don't think the branches up there will hold our weight. I might just bring the whole damn thing crashing down on my head."

"Well then at least it will be closer," John reasons.

Rook wants to say something cutting to that, but honestly, the man has a point.

"Fine, let's go see what's in your crate."

Rook climbs, carefully and stiffly, on legs that really don't want to be doing anything in the way of strenuous movement. John climbs after him, though he complains about it, repeatedly. Rook gets within reaching distance and finds nowhere to put his damn foot. His boot just keeps skidding on the bark.

"Fuck it, I can't get any higher. I need something to -"

John puts a hand on his ass and pushes, and Rook manages to steady himself by losing half the skin on his forearm against bark. He hisses annoyance, hand dragging the suddenly accessible crate closer to the fork his ribcage is now crushed against

"Thank you, and also, you're a fucking asshole," Rook says easily.

John laughs, the total shit actually laughs up at him.

Rook pushes up the lid of the crate, finds it splintered on one side, half the contents probably flung away on impact. What's left in the crate is...interesting.

"There aren't any guns in it," Rook says.

"Fuck," John says from below him.

Rook looks down, waits until John is squinting back up at him.

"But there is a grenade," he adds. 

John Seed looks up at him with the sort of sleepy-eyed enthusiasm that Rook has only ever encountered in the bedroom. It's...not a bad look for him. Which he thinks he should probably hate himself for noticing. But it's been one of those days, so he's going to cut himself a little slack.

"Do it," John says simply.

Rook shakes his head and laughs, because of course.

"How did I know you were going to say that."

"Because I have faith that I'm not going to die in pieces, eaten by half exploded wolverines."

"That seems a very specific thing to have faith in," Rook mutters, but he's too amused to dig at it. "We could just as easily blow ourselves up, along with the tree, you realise that?"

John shrugs awkwardly, while still mostly holding on to Rook's ass.

"You know what, I don't care, do it anyway."

Rook stretches a little higher. Feels John's fingers spread and dig in. Rook is pretty sure he's enjoying this. Which - is really not that big of a surprise, if he's being honest. He reaches into the splintered case, and very carefully lifts the frag grenade out of the material it's pressed into. There's no way he's climbing down the tree holding it. It was hard enough to come up with both hands free. He leans down, and very pointedly holds it down to John.

"How trusting of you," John says smoothly, but he takes the grenade and then leans sideways out of the way, lets Rook carefully make his way back down. 

"We're going to get a fucking Darwin Award," Rook murmurs to the world at large.

They settle on a branch below the ones they've been sitting on. It's narrower, but with a better line of sight to the milling horde beneath them. Rook pushes John's sunglasses up his head, and contemplates the writhing mass of fur.

"Should we try and get their attention?" John suggests.

"I think we've had their attention for two days."

" _More_ of their attention," John says. "We get one explosion and I'd like to get as many of the little fu- as many of them as possible."

"That is...an intelligent thought." Rook's going to give him that one. He snaps a few smaller branches and throws them down, until there are a few more gaping, hissing mouths circling the tree.

"Let me do it," John says simply. 

"You just want to kill them all."

"I do," John admits with a smile. "Deeply."

Rook shrugs and waves a hand. Why the hell not? Why not let the crazy man have the grenade. It's not like his life could get any more dangerous.

"Fuck it, be my guest, fire in the hole."

John smiles with what's definitely an unhealthy amount of glee, and Rook suddenly isn't sure whether it was the best idea to have encouraged it. But it's really too late now. John looks down, pulls the pin, and with great relish drops it over the side. Rook catches his vest, and without thinking about it, drags them both tight to the trunk. He can feel John Seed laughing against his throat.

The explosion is loud and red, the wave of it smacking into him like the world's biggest hand. It crushes all the air out of him, and immediately sends him completely deaf. A wolverine goes flying, spinning aggressively through the air, dead or alive Rook can't tell. It hits another tree and lands with a flump in the undergrowth.

There's nothing after but a cloud of dust, the drift of fur, and splinters of bark. Nothing happens for a second, Rook works his jaw, tries to get sound to come back. He can still feel John laughing, but it's mostly just vibration and warmth now. It seems like that's going to be it.

Until the branch they're both standing on cracks in half and Rook grabs for something, _anything_ -

They both end up - after a messy period inbetween - at the bottom of the tree, surrounded by pieces of bark and wolverine. 

"Ow, my fucking ass," Rook complains, and then has to laugh. Because that may have been a flavour of carnage and revenge that he hadn't even known he needed. John is laughing as well, and it sounds surprisingly normal and not psychotic at all. Rook's pretty sure they've killed every wolverine for miles. He laughs until he literally has no air left to continue. John is still slumped companionably at his side, shoulder jammed into Rook's ribcage. He's warm and solid, and it's a weird sort of intimacy to know what his amusement sounds like, when no one has to die for it. This is...this has definitely been an interesting few days.

Rook carefully levers himself upright on stiff, wobbly legs, then pulls John up after him, because he's feeling generous, and they have no grenades left to fight with.

"Well, that was certainly an experience, I think I'll -"

John Seed is much too close, and there's no subtlety to the look he's giving Rook right now. Rook isn't sure John knows how to be subtle. It's not violence, but it's something like it, something Rook doesn't think the man knows how to separate out.

"Isn't it a sin," he says carefully, not sure whether to be annoyed, amused, or some confusing third option. "To look at me like that." 

If you listen to Eden's Gate everything is a sin. All pieces of humanity that need to be carved out. They don't seem to want a man to breathe without bleeding for it. 

"Don't you have to pay for your sins, John?"

"I will," John says simply. "Later, earnestly and wholly for my moment of weakness."

John Seed leans into him, and Rook surprises himself by letting him. Confusing third option it is. John's mouth is open against his own, and he doesn't feel very weak to Rook. He's solid and hot, slightly sweaty under his clothes. He kisses like it's an indulgence he hasn't managed in a long time, quickly and aggressively. Rook wouldn't normally complain, but in his defence the man has a history of being a psychopath. 

"And you will pay for yours as well," John adds, when they break apart for a moment to eye each other from far too close. "Because I will be the one allowed to show you the way." 

That sounds like either a creepy threat, or a creepy claim of ownership. But John doesn't seem any less inclined to kiss him again. Rook could stop him, but he doesn't, and even John seems surprised by that. He slides his fingers into the waist of Rook's jeans, drawing him closer.

Rook does eventually pull back, though he probably should have done it much sooner. John is proving himself to be unexpectedly distracting when he's not doing anything actively upsetting. If you assume that his whole being isn't actively upsetting that is.

"No offence, John, but you seem like the kind of man who'll try and choke me half way through," Rook says carefully. Which isn't anything close to the refusal he probably should have voiced at about this point. There should be more refusals, for a lot of things. This is one of those times that the word 'no' was probably designed for. Though John Seed would definitely disapprove of the thought. But then, there's always been a small part of Rook that's been reckless and contrary, and that's kind of what brought him to this point.

John makes a quiet, considering noise.

"I'll restrain myself, just this once," he says, and there's a smile, or the pieces of one. Rook thinks that might have actually been a joke. He's going to ask -

But then John Seed kneels in a patch of dead wolverines and unzips Rook's jeans. It feels inappropriate. It feels utterly reckless and fucking stupid, and more than a little gross.

It probably says something about him that he's still absolutely going to let John do it. He stops pretending that this is going to end any other way. 

"Touch my head and I'll fucking bite you," John says simply.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Rook grasps for one of the splintered branches over his head with one hand, cautiously places the other on John's shoulder.

John eases his jeans and shorts out of the way, tugs his dick down and opens his mouth around it. Then he uses one tattooed hand to pin Rook to the tree. Rook's stupid, over-abused body, high on adrenaline and post-explosion excitement, immediately fucking surrenders. It doesn't care in the slightest that John Seed is a crazy person. Not with the way his mouth is moving, with the heat of it clamped all the way around him.

John shoves one hand under Rook's shirt, spreads it, and it takes Rook a second to realise John's touching the word that he left on Rook's chest. It's a possessive bit of bullshit that Rook normally wouldn't let him get away with, but he's currently trying to breathe, while John does obscene things to him. He does them repeatedly and shamelessly, with a hurried indulgence that Rook doesn't really have the common sense to process right now. 

John opens his own jeans, before shoving a hand inside and easing himself free, and then his arm is moving in quick, greedy shifts.

Rook bites out John's name, it's half surprised arousal and half question. But in response John shoves him into the tree, and takes him all the way down, nose pressed to his skin, which clenches and twitches under the attention. Before drawing back and doing it again. Rook's pretty sure a piece of torn branch has just ripped its way through his shirt and stabbed him, but he doesn't even care. He exhales a shaky, punched-out noise, forces himself not to shove, not to fuck into John's mouth like he wants to. He honestly can't remember why he's fighting so hard. But instead, he tightens his hand on John's shoulder, fingers slipping under his vest, where it's warm and slightly damp. Rook pulls at it, briefly, impatiently, in a way that he thinks is fairly polite, under the circumstances.

"Fuck, would you please -"

John makes a low noise of amusement around him. All vibration and intensity, that leaves Rook breathing through his mouth, gripping the fabric of John's shirt and squeezing. And then he doesn't have the breath left to protest, as the pace goes quick and clumsy, a shaken messiness that can't do anything but drive him all the way to the edge. Then shove him straight over.

"Fuck. _Fuck_." Rook's hand clenches and unclenches on John's shoulder, while John swallows around him. 

John's other hand joins the first under Rook's shirt, wet and unpleasantly tacky on his skin. Which is just fucking _typical_ of the man. But Rook's too busy trying to remember how his body is supposed to work to protest too hard. He's not sure he manages it. His legs feel like they belong to someone else.

He suddenly remembers all the reasons this was a bad idea. Why he shouldn't have let it get anywhere near this far. 

John sways back, pushes himself to his feet. Before Rook can get anything like words out, John presses him into the tree and kisses him. He kisses him like he doesn't think he's going to get another chance, and Rook lets it go on for far longer than he should. Than he means to, or than is probably sane considering the circumstances.

When John pulls away he takes his sunglasses with him. He looks smug and satisfied, mouth red, the key round his neck hangs crooked against damp skin. Rook thinks it would be very easy to take. Instead he eases himself back into his boxer shorts, zips and rebuckles his belt.

"The next time I see you, I might have to kill you," he says quietly. Rook doesn't mean to sound apologetic about it, that's just how it comes out.

"Or I might save you instead," John says. He sounds like he's looking forward to it either way.

Then he turns around and starts walking South. 

Rook sighs, watches him for a long minute, before shrugging and heading North, looking for something familiar.

They'll catch up with each other again eventually.


End file.
